


survival skills

by 75hearts



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, is this a hallucination or is it real? don't ask me i don't know either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 05:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14804840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/75hearts/pseuds/75hearts
Summary: A man who looks in every way like Fingon tells Maedhros, “We do not have to do anything you do not want to do.”Maedhros is either too smart or too paranoid not to take this as a threat.





	survival skills

Fingon-who-is-not-Fingon holds his hand. “We do not have to do anything you do not want to do.”

Maedhros is either too smart or too paranoid not to take this as a threat. He knows how the Enemy thinks, what they are telling him: _You will want this or at least pretend well,_ _or else it will all get worse and it will be your fault._ He is an excellent diplomat, and that means he is excellent at pretending. He is on Enemy territory, and so he must play their game, and no matter how he plays it he will lose; he is good at it nonetheless. He smiles at Fingon, melting into his gaze, stops the shaking of his hands. Leans in for a kiss, cups his cousin’s cheeks in his hands. If this were real, he would tell Fingon that he loved him, that of course he wants it; as it is, he kisses harder. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, with a hopeless grin and soft eyes. There; something equivalent, that doesn’t indicate disbelief, that’s not untrue. He refuses still to lie for the amusement of the Enemy.

Fingon's face smiles at that, tangles his hands in Maedhros’s hair--short, cropped, he remembers how it was done, Sauron with scissors and he could not reach him or turn himself around to fight, and Maedhros has to force himself to lean into it instead of flinching--pulls him closer, and they are kissing again.

Maedhros knows that they cannot stay kissing forever, the Enemy will not be satisfied by that. He will pretend to be, as Fingon, because to do otherwise would break character; but he will not be, and then he will not be pretending to be Fingon anymore. The Enemy is being kind, right now, loath as he is to admit that, and so he must give him what is wanted from him. He pulls away, begins to unbutton Fingon’s top, kissing his way down, sucking on a collarbone as Fingon makes tiny noises beneath him. He is careful not to let himself seem too robotic, not to let himself drift far away, no matter how tempting it is; he was asked to  _ want  _ it, and he knows the consequences of failure, so he puts on his best lustful eyes, tries to move with a mockery of desperation. He is lucky that he is a good actor.

Fingon lets out a soft moan as Maedhros pulls down his pants one-handed, awkwardly. Maedhros is licking carefully at his thighs. He puts his hand on Maedhros’s head. “Oh, Maitimo… it is so soon, are you sure you are ready for this, I do not want to hurt you, your injuries, don’t… are you…”

“I am as sure of this as I am of anything,” Maedhros recites, carefully adding breathiness to the words. He has gotten good at being convincing without technically lying. The Enemy has no corresponding scrupules about lying to  _ him _ , but he is a son of Fëanor, and even now he clutches his pride close to his chest. He adds in a careful, halting weakness in his voice as he speaks next, an excuse in case any of his true disgust comes through: “As long as you still want me.”

“Maitimo--you cannot truly--you could look like anything, go through anything, do anything, and I would still love you. If my father had died leading us on the Helcarax ë, if it had been my sister at Alqualondë, I would still love you. I shouldn’t, I know I shouldn’t, but--there is nothing you can do, nothing in this entire world you can do, to make me stop wanting you.” There is a rawness in Fingon’s voice, a vulnerability, and until the last sentence Maedhros is almost moved by it; but then he hears the threat again, the reminder,  _ there is nothing you can do _ . It sits in his stomach like a stone. He swallows and fakes a quavering smile, an adoring look, and his fingers brush up the hardness ever-so-lightly and breath catches in the chest of Fingon-who-is-not-Fingon, Fingon-who-is-the-enemy, as his ribs become visible beneath his skin.

Maedhros knows to prolong it, as much as he can. It is survival instinct, baked deeper than anything; the longer Sauron can be entertained by this, the more he can put off the inevitable change, the slow and terrible torture--or, worse, the frustration that comes when Sauron fails to get anything out of him, that ends with Morgoth standing before him. And so Maedhros smiles, and teases, using the tip of his tongue to trace up and down as Fingon's body jerks beneath him. 

“Oh, Maitimo--oh--fuck--” 

There is a limit, though, of how much he can tease before Sauron gets annoyed, and Maedhros knows this, and just as he is pushing that limit he takes the length of it into his mouth, down his throat, relaxing as he bobs up and down. Fingon’s eyes go wide, surprised for a moment, and then his expression gives way to a dawning horror as he realizes the implications. In Valinor, the few times he tried this, Maedhros would cough and splutter, almost throwing up; the two of them never felt the need to push harder than that, satisfied as they were with the other possibilities. He did not learn this with Fingon, sneaking behind their parents’ backs in the comparatively safe haven of Tirion. He learned this in Angband.

But there is no time for this revelation, as Maedhros sucks and licks, moving rhythmically but catching himself every time the motions get too robotic. And, Maedhros reminds himself, it is not truly a new understanding, it is a mockery, a facsimile; Sauron is not realizing anything for the first time, Sauron is acting, Sauron is the one who taught him this in the first place and this is not new information for him. It does not matter how convincing the tears are pooling in Fingon’s eyes are. The expression that is painted on his face is conflicted, upset and disquiet fighting with pleasure, and it does not matter because it is  _ fake _ .

Maedhros closes his eyes. He breathes through his nose, in and out, up and down. He even remembers to pretend to enjoy it.

Eventually, it ends. Fingon-who-is-not-Fingon takes his hand again and kisses his seed from Maedhros’s lips. Maedhros tries to smile for him.


End file.
